


In Sickness & In Health

by ReadTheSubtext



Category: Army Wives
Genre: Angst, F/F, Femslash, Hurt/Comfort, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-03 19:56:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReadTheSubtext/pseuds/ReadTheSubtext
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claudia Joy struggles to deal with her diagnosis, and Denise picks up the pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Sickness & In Health

I see the fear in Emmalin's eyes, notice how preoccupied she is, and I hate myself for putting her through this. I'm wrenching her away from normality again, reminding her that life's too fragile to take for granted, and that's not a lesson a nineteen-year-old should have to learn. Emmalin should be out having fun with her friends, not worrying about me, but I know every second she spends in this hospital room is cleaving open old wounds. All I can do is pretend that I'm taking all of this in my stride; that the needles don't hurt when they pierce through my skin, that the bruises aren't as bad as they look, that I'm not so exhausted it's taking everything I have to stay awake. I ignore the bone-deep ache in my joints and smile through the pain, trying to focus on the conversations going on around me. I wonder if my performance is convincing enough to shield my daughter from the hopelessness I'm feeling, or if she can see through the act.

I've spent the past two years micro-managing my diet, monitoring my glucose levels, trying to prevent my body from betraying me. The knowledge that I could still keel over at a moment's notice was never far from my mind, but at least my diabetes was manageable. At least I had some degree of control over my own life. Denise saw me at my worst, curled up in a helpless heap on Pamela's kitchen floor, but she made me realise that a moment of weakness wasn't going to alter people's perceptions of me forever. 

All of that's about to change. The hospital's poised to become my second home, I'm going to be dependent on dialysis for the rest of my life, and even Roxy doesn't know what to say to me any more. I wonder if things will get easier over time, or if my relationships are destined to become characterised by awkward silences and stunted small talk. I'll be an object of pity; stopped in the street by insincere well-wishers, mollycoddled by my friends and family. My illness will always be at the forefront of everyone's minds, and every conversation will start with, _“How are you feeling today, Claudia Joy?”_

I don't want people to think that I need their help. I don't want them gossiping behind my back, or speculating about whether I'm falling apart at the seams. I don't want to be a burden.

When Michael leaves for the night, it gets harder to stave off the despair. I think of Amanda, and wonder if she'll be waiting for me if this illness slowly and insidiously destroys me; if I decide that fighting isn't worth it any more. It's a comforting thought, but I can't bring myself to believe it. I go to Church every Sunday, I exchange pleasantries with the Chaplain, but I'm only going through the motions because it's what's expected of me. It's hard to keep on praying when your prayers are never answered, and there's a gulf between me and God that I don't think I'll ever be able to bridge. Maybe that's why He's so intent on punishing me. 

As always, when I think of the daughter who was snatched away from me before she could experience everything life had to offer, it doesn't take long for the guilt to seep in. People are too kind to say it, but Amanda died that night because I took a detour to the Hump Bar instead of taking her straight to the train station. She never would've left the sanctuary of my car if I hadn't stopped to talk to my friends; if I hadn't kept her waiting for so long. She never would've left the safety of our house if only I'd listened to Michael's concerns in the first place. Like David Masterson, Amanda died because I made a stupid decision; because I thought I was infallible. Maybe this is exactly the kind of punishment I deserve. 

My musings turn to my husband, who's been spending every evening holed away in his study, striving to get the recognition he deserves. I don't want to be a distraction, I don't want him to feel guilty for prioritising his career over me. He never has before. The fact that Michael accepted this promotion without even consulting me tells me how much it means to him, and I know he can't afford to be lumbered with a needy, sickly wife who consumes too much of his time and attention. The thought of throwing him off his game; of jeopardising his chances of getting a Third Star, makes me feel even more nauseous. All I can do is tell him that I'm fine and hope that he believes it.

Denise used to be the only person I could fall apart in front of; the only person I could share my worries and concerns with without feeling painfully exposed, but things are different between us now. Leaning on her seems selfish when she's suffered enough heartache of her own, and even though I know she never meant to betray my confidence, a part of me can't help but wonder if she'll innocently repeat our conversations to Jackie Clarke. I don't want that woman to know how vulnerable I'm feeling. I don't want her to think that she can swoop in and take everything because I'm too weak to fight back.

I want to believe that things can go back to the way they were, that Jackie doesn't have the power to poison my relationship with Denise, but in a way, she already has. I can't escape the fact that, when push came to shove, Denise chose Jackie over me. Maybe I shouldn't have put Denise in that position in the first place, maybe it was petty of me to feel jealous and insecure, but I thought after everything we'd been through together, I could rely on Denise for support. I thought nothing could destroy the bond between us. Now, as much as I try to give Denise the benefit of the doubt, as much as I try to convince myself that she was simply going out of her way to make an old friend feel welcome, it doesn't change the fact that she left me behind. She cut me out of her life, and over some stupid argument about over-priced table pieces, she told me she didn't need me any more.

I tried freezing Denise out, I tried to punish her for relegating me to second best, but it was too hard to keep my distance. It was easier to accept Denise's apology than tell her how much she'd hurt me; it was easier to take some of the blame than admit that I felt betrayed. I need Denise in my life, and feeling uncertain about our friendship is better than having no friendship at all. 

I can't help but wonder, though, if the situation with Denise kept me from seeing the warning signs. My kidneys were failing and I didn't even notice. I felt depressed, and I attributed it to the hollow feeling in my gut every time I looked out of my window and saw Denise sitting on Jackie's front porch. I went to bed feeling sick to the stomach, and I thought it was because I was losing my best friend. I was physically exhausted, but I just assumed the emotional turmoil was taking its toll. It never occurred to me that something was seriously wrong. 

Now it's too late. The damage is done. There are so many questions I'm frightened to voice aloud. A part of me wants to know exactly how debilitating this illness is going to be, but the other part of me is terrified of hearing the answer. 

I'm so wrapped up in my own thoughts, I don't hear Denise enter the room until she's hovering over my bed, looking concerned. I can see the sympathy etched across her features, and I hope that she's here because she wants to be, not out of some sense of obligation.

“I thought I'd sneak away to come and tuck you in for the night,” she says, offering me a warm smile. And then there's the inevitable, “How are you doing?”

“I'm OK.” I try and smile back, but I can tell from Denise's worried frown that the effort looks as strained as it feels. “Just a little tired, that's all,” I hastily amend, because I know a generic response isn't going to cut it. “It's been a long day.” 

“I know.” Denise's expression softens and she crosses the room, perching on the edge of my bed. “It's a lot to take in, huh?”

“For everyone,” I acknowledge, and I can't look at her right now, because I'm scared of what I might say.

“Claudia Joy, you didn't ask for this,” Denise reminds me, almost as if she knows what I'm thinking. “It's not your fault.”

She reaches for my hand and holds it gently in her lap, running her thumb back and forth across my knuckles. That simple gesture of kindness almost breaks me, because it suddenly dawns on me just how much I've missed the comfort and warmth of her touch. I nod in agreement, because that's what Denise expects me to do, but she looks disappointed when I don't take the opportunity to confide in her.

“Is there anything I can get you?” she asks instead, and I shake my head, trying to make my smile more convincing this time around.

“No, I'm all set.” 

“Then I should probably let you get some rest.” She reluctantly lets go of my hand, and I fight the urge to cling to her. I don't want to be alone tonight. 

“I'll check on you again tomorrow, OK?”

“Sounds great.” I can barely get the words out, but I manage to convey some degree of enthusiasm.

“OK... well... goodnight,” Denise murmurs, and her voice is every bit as tender as the kiss she presses against my cheek. Her lips are soft, and for a fleeting moment, I can feel her breath warming my skin; her hand resting lovingly against my shoulder. When she pulls back, the numbness returns, and I tug on my blanket in a futile attempt to ward off the cold.

It takes me a moment to fight back the tears, but I manage to look at her without crumbling. 

“Goodnight,” I echo robotically, even though it's anything but.

* * *

I thought sleep would come easily, that it would offer me a much-needed reprieve, but it feels like hours since I first closed my eyes. Just when I think I've tuned everything out, my brain goes into overdrive again, subjecting me to an endless cycle of what-ifs. I try to suppress the worry, to ignore my worst fears, but even exhaustion can't help me to escape from my own mind. 

I wait until the hustle and bustle outside of my door dies down, until the room is swathed in darkness, and then I finally let myself cry. At least if I get this out of my system now, I won't be wallowing in self-pity tomorrow. Emmalin needs me to be optimistic about the future, and if she saw me like this, I'd never forgive myself. 

Once I start crying, I can't stop. I tell myself to get a grip, that things could be a hell of a lot worse, that I've led a privileged life compared to most people, but I feel like I'm suffocating; that I can't suck in enough air between sobs; that I'm drowning in my own tears. 

“Hey...”

It takes me a moment to realise that Denise is standing in the doorway, and when I see the look of consternation on her face, I realise that she isn't just doing her job, she's here because she cares.

I pinch the bridge of my nose in a futile attempt to pull it together and try and preserve what little dignity I have left, but Denise's compassion only makes me cry harder. She bends over at the waist and wraps her arms around me, tucking her chin against my shoulder. I feel her weight settling over me and for a moment it's hard to breathe, but the tightness in my chest starts to dissipate when she pulls me close, stroking my hair. I cling to her with what little strength I have left, and let her see me cry uninhibitedly. I haven't broken down like this since Amanda's death, but at least that was in the privacy of my own bathroom.

“I'm sorry, Denise. I'm so sorry,” I wheeze, because I still have no control over the tears that are pouring down my cheeks. My nose is running and I'm leaving a wet patch on her scrubs, but she just holds me tighter, rocking me back and forth.

“Don't apologise,” she says, and I hear the hitch in her own voice, “You're the last person in the world who deserves to suffer like this, Claudia Joy. You're allowed to be upset. You're allowed to be angry.” Her words become muffled as she buries her face in the crook of my neck. “Just promise me you won't give up, OK?”

“I'm n-not... I'm not as s-strong as everyone thinks,” I admit, and my heart lurches a little when Denise pulls back.

“You don't have to be. Not with me.” 

Denise uses her sleeve to dry my cheeks and when I finally summon the courage to meet her gaze, I realise that her eyes are swimming with tears, too. It doesn't take long to discern that what I'm seeing is empathy, not pity, and Denise's expression is so understanding I start to believe that maybe, with her support, I can get through this after all. 

I nod my gratitude, and she scoops me up again, cradling me close until I finally claw back some semblance of composure. When she squeezes my hand and crosses the room, I assume that she's preparing to leave, but instead she glances up and down the corridor and then closes the door. I can't help but wonder if anyone else bore witness to my meltdown, and the mere possibility makes me feel painfully self-conscious. 

“You don't have to stay,” I inform Denise, embarrassed by the hoarseness in my voice, “I don't want to drag you away from your work.” 

“My shift's almost over,” she assures me, “And I have my pager if anyone needs me. Most of my patients are asleep now, anyway.” 

She sinks onto the bed next to me, giving me a gentle nudge.

“Scoot over,” she commands, and I regard her curiously. 

“Why?”

“Because I'm staying with you until you fall asleep,” she responds matter-of-factly, and I raise my eyebrows, not sure whether to feel touched or amused.

“Denise, that's really not necessary,” I assure her. “I let things overwhelm me for a moment, that's all. I'll be fine.”

“Yeah, well, I'm not leaving you like this, Claudia Joy.” She has that intent, determined look, and I can feel my resolve weakening.

“Denise...” My last protest falls on deaf ears, because Denise is already swinging her legs onto the bed and edging under my blanket. I have no choice but to move over and accommodate her. 

“What if someone sees us?” I demand, “You can get fired for falling asleep on the job.”

“Claudia Joy, I wouldn't even _have_ this job if you hadn't asked Joan to put in a good word for me,” she points out, levelling me with a sweet smile and a mischievous wink, “And besides, we were told to take special care of the Corps Commander's Wife.”

I open my mouth, and then abruptly close it again, because if I'm honest with myself, I don't really want Denise to go; even if this feels a little awkward, even if my heart is suddenly pounding a whole lot faster than it should be.

“Come here,” she says softly, opening her arms, and after a moment's hesitation, I lean into her embrace, curling against her side. She wraps an arm around my shoulders and I rest my head against her chest, listening to her breathe in and out. I'm used to the rigid contours of Michael's body, but Denise is soft, and warm, and makes for a much more comfortable pillow. She caresses my forearm, plays with my fingers, strokes my hair, and I feel the tension start to ebb away. I close my eyes and snuggle closer, and Denise's perfume eclipses the smell of bleached sheets and sterile walls. 

“It's going to be a long road, Claudia Joy, and it's going to be hard, but I'll be with you every step of the way,” she informs me, and the arm that encircles my hips feels both protective and fortifying, “We all will.”

“Thank you,” I choke out, because it's exactly what I needed to hear. I smooth my hand over Denise's stomach, and we lapse into a comfortable silence. My brain finally allows me a moment's peace, and now all I can hear is the steady rhythm of Denise's heartbeat; all I can feel is the lazy motion of her hand tracing patterns against my side, and the wisps of her breath rustling through my hair. A distant part of me knows that - after the events of the past few weeks - I shouldn't give myself over to Denise like this, I shouldn't rely on her to piece me back together, but right now, I'm too content to care. 

In a matter of minutes, I can feel myself drifting off, but before I can fall over the precipice, Denise pulls me back.

“Claudia Joy?” she whispers, and I shift in her arms until I can see her face. The sadness in her eyes takes me by surprise, and I find myself frowning in concern. 

“I know things have been a little strained between us, and I just wanted to say how sorry I am,” she informs me, and the implied remorse is written all over face, “I said some things in the heat of the moment that I didn't mean, and I - ”

“Denise, it's all water under the bridge now,” I reassure her, because as much as I need to hear this, I can't stand to see her pained expression.

“Maybe so, but I shouldn't have walked away from you like that. I shouldn't have said all of those hurtful things when you were just trying to help me.” I feel her fingertips brush against my hand. “I never meant to drive a wedge between us.” 

I struggle to hold back a sigh. “I know.” 

“Then why do I get the feeling that you're still not convinced?” She regards me imploringly, tilting my chin upwards until we're eye-to-eye. “Tell me what you're thinking.”

I wonder how much to reveal. I'm terrified of making Denise angry, of alienating her all over again, and I'm not sure if it's possible to verbalise - or justify - what I've been feeling. 

“I want to trust your judgement, Denise...” I begin earnestly, “I want to believe that Jackie's a good person, but I've dealt with so many Jennifer Connors and Lenore Bakers, I still find it hard to believe that she “accidentally” disclosed Michael's retirement plans.”

I raise a hand to forestall Denise's objections. 

“I know you think I'm being paranoid, but look at it from my perspective, Denise. Jackie's been playing this game for a long time; she knows how the rumour mill works. She's an intelligent woman, she must have understood how that information could impact on Michael's career.” 

I chance a glance at Denise, hoping I haven't said anything untoward. I'm trying to be diplomatic, but I don't know if I can maintain the charade for long. 

“Maybe I shouldn't have been so aggressive when I confronted her,” I concede, still trying to sugar-coat my dislike for Denise's friend, “But Jackie made it clear that she's been doing her research. She knows about Michael's DUI. She knows he was blacklisted after the interview he gave in Afghanistan. She thinks his career should have been over a long time ago.”

“You really think that she's out to sabotage you?” Denise asks, and to my relief, she looks more concerned than incredulous. 

“I don't know.” I shrug, mulling over what to say next. “Maybe it _was_ just a coincidence that she turned up during an FRG meeting. Maybe she wasn't trying to undermine me when she spearheaded the Craig Morgan concert.” I take a moment to try and rein in my scepticism, “Maybe this whole community outreach crusade isn't just a game of one-upmanship.”

“And maybe she's just trying to live up to your legacy, Claudia Joy,” Denise observes, twining her fingers through mine. “You won the Muriel Spenser Award, after all. We all know Jackie's got her work cut out for her.” She hesitates, and I regard her expectantly, waiting for her to say what's on her mind. 

“It's not like you, to be this competitive,” she concludes, haltingly.

She's right. I bow my head, knowing that I'm going to have to tell Denise the whole truth. 

“Denise, this was never really about the FRG, or Michael's promotion. I want Jackie to be good at her job, and if Kevin really is a worthy candidate for a Third Star - if the decision's based purely on merit - then I can learn to live with that.” I try to swallow around the lump in my throat. “What I can't live with is... is losing my best friend.”

“Claudia Joy - ” Denise looks confused, like she's poised to dismiss my concerns, so I cut her off before she has the chance.

“I felt like Jackie was trying to steal you away from me,” I admit, and I can feel my cheeks burning with embarrassment, because I know how puerile that sounds. “That afternoon, when she invited me over to help with the seating arrangements, I felt like she deliberately orchestrated the whole thing so I'd see the two of you together. You stopped coming around for coffee every morning, and started working out with Jackie instead. You cancelled our lunch dates because you were too busy planning events for her. You seemed so in awe of her, Denise, and it was like... it was like you didn't have time for me any more. ”

Denise's eyes are shining, and she tightens her grip on my hand. “Why didn't you say anything?” 

“Because I didn't want to sound petty, or needy. You're entitled to have other friends, Denise, but Jackie just seemed... she seemed like more than that.” I bite my lip, evading eye contact so Denise won't see how raw I'm feeling right now. “Maybe you're right, maybe I'm reading too much into this,” I eventually confess, “But you asked me why I felt so threatened by Jackie Clarke, and it's...” Tears bubble up in my throat, and my eyes start to burn, “It's because ever since she got here, I feel like I don't matter to you any more. That maybe... maybe her friendship is more important to you than mine.”

Denise sucks in a sharp breath, and when I finally dare to look up, I realise that she's crying. 

“Oh, sweetheart, don't get upset.” My heart constricts and I use the back of my hand to chase away her tears, feeling horribly guilty. “I'm so sorry. This is stupid. We're not in high school anymore.”

“Claudia Joy, you mean more to me than Jackie Clarke ever will,” Denise says fervently, and her tone is so sincere, so intense, that I actually dare to believe her. “If I made you question that for even a second, then I'm the one who's sorry. You're my best friend. You're the reason I'm still sane.” She offers me a watery smile, running her fingertips over my cheeks, “And I love you so much.”

The dam finally breaks, and for a moment, all I can do is nod through my tears. “I love you, too,” I eventually choke out, and when I blink away the blurriness, I realise that Denise is looking at me like she used to, with the kind of affection that warms me from the inside out. She's studying my expression, searching for something intangible, and then suddenly she's leaning towards me and I'm not doing anything to stop her. 

The kiss is chaste at first, tentative, gentle, and I'm the one who prolongs the contact, cupping Denise's head in my hands, drawing her closer. Her mouth covers mine again, and this time it's comfort and passion; longing and desperation all rolled into one. I know this is wrong, that I need to stop, but Denise's lips are like a panacea and I can't prise myself away; not when she's making me forget where I am, or why I'm here. I've spent the day almost catatonic with fatigue, and she's making me feel alive again. I was on the verge of giving up, and now I'm alight with an urgency I can barely contain. I'm not even cognizant of the pain anymore, only the softness of Denise's lips and my own arousal; coiling in the pit of my stomach; surging through my veins. It's only when Denise's hand grazes my ribcage en route to my thigh that I moan and jerk away. I need to think, not feel, and she's making it too hard.

“We can't,” I gasp, and Denise looks every bit as mortified as I feel.

“Oh God,” she says, and her hand flies to her mouth. “Claudia Joy, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have... I just wanted to...I didn't mean...” 

“I know,” I tell her, even though I don't. I don't understand why Denise crossed a line that has always been written, albeit hazily, in the sand, and I can't comprehend why I encouraged her to take the plunge. And now I don't know why - despite the guilt that's already gnawing at me - I desperately want her to do it again. 

Denise looks like she's about to bolt, and a part of me wants to let her, but I can't bear the thought of this destroying what we've only just repaired. I cling to her shoulders, and suck in a shaky breath. 

“Don't go,” I beg, and her expression softens a little. “I'm upset, and you're...you're tired,” I add, even though I know there's nothing I can say to explain this away. “Let's just... forget this ever happened, OK?”

Denise looks at me dubiously, as if I don't already know that I'm asking the impossible. 

“I...” She hesitates, and I hold my breath. “OK,” she eventually agrees. She settles back down besides me, but it feels different this time. Her arms are rigid and I can feel her hands trembling against my hip. 

“Denise...”

“Don't say anything,” she implores, and I bite my lip, nodding. It takes a moment, but eventually she relaxes against me, and I dare to wrap an arm around her waist. 

“Go to sleep, Claudia Joy,” she murmurs, and I repress a shiver as her breath caresses my cheek. It already feels like I'm dreaming.


End file.
